


Secondhand Elf

by odilemoon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftercare, Aphrodisiacs, Chastity Device, F/M, Femdom, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Reluctant Sadist, Sex Pollen, elf abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odilemoon/pseuds/odilemoon
Summary: In a high fantasy world where all men are property, a village healer purchases her childhood friend- who was also her first, and only, crush. Since he's been conditioned to serve as a sex slave, she doesn't want to take advantage of him. But he's been pining after her for years, and doesn't see it as taking advantage.A story about the power of love and consent in a world that values neither.(fully posted, might write a sequel! suck it, graduate school!)
Relationships: absolutely shattered prisoner of war/his soft childhood friend
Comments: 53
Kudos: 290





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Raw Meat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245566) by [sanguia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguia/pseuds/sanguia). 



> this is set in the world of the new world order/ghorzaverse series:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642039
> 
> basically, an orc war-queen named ghorza has subjugated the land, and her army thinks men should be slaves. men are kept under control by feeding them addictive aphrodisiac mushrooms.

MAN SALE, the poster nailed to the wall of the tavern says, and then there’s a little stick-figure drawing of what she thinks is a large-breasted orc woman holding a male of indeterminate species on a leash. Yeah, she’s in the right place. Ciannait tucks a lock of curly hair behind her ear and smoothes down her pinafore. She tries to look calm. 

Like everyone in her small village, Ciannait was terrified when the orc hordes came into town. Ghorza the Despot and her warband. The castle had fallen, the kingdom’s leaders were in disarray, and now it was just a matter of solidifying their control over the countryside.

Except Ghorza’s army didn’t take women prisoner, didn’t kill women or force them to work for the invaders. Just men. Orcish society had a very strict matriarchy, in which men were little more than chattel. They wanted everyone else to adopt that system too. Every man young and strong enough to fight back against orcish rule- and a few who weren’t, but still had good looks- were kidnapped and broken, then sold to the women of other villages to finance the army’s travel ever onward.

Women were only worth their notice if they could be used to make men submit. And Ciannait, with no family and no male suitors ever, in her little cottage close to the woods? The orcs didn’t even know she existed. She was bisexual and too short and soft to be beautiful by orc standards, and too curvy to be beautiful by the standards of human men. Apparently there had been some “man managing” class in the town square the other day, and she’d missed the invite.

Well… one almost-suitor. One man she’d quietly, impossibly loved when they were both young.

They were both fifteen ten years ago when Falcon, her elven friend, was sent away from the small village. It was evening, the time when they snuck from their homes to meet at the edge of the woods. He came running towards her through the trees like a streak of moonlight.

“I’ve been chosen to serve my people’s goddess.”

Her parents were always telling her to be a good girl- to concentrate on practical skills, because no peasant girl would ever get to be a real ambassador to the elves. She didn’t need to know their dialect to know the skills she’d need to maintain her plot of land and cottage once her parents had passed on. So she didn’t know exactly what Falcon meant, didn’t know how the goddess was worshipped, but the light in his hazel-gold eyes told her it was something good. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll be sent to live at the temple. To memorize the holy books and learn to be chaste. Healing and study and prayer- oh, Ci, this is what I’ve always dreamed of! I can’t wait!” When he wrapped his arms around her, she breathed him in. He smelled like pine needles and honey and clean linen.

Then his words sank in. It felt like a stone settling in her heart. “You’re leaving?”

“The temple is in a valley close to the border. It’s been one of our most sacred sites… I have to go there if I’m to enter the Goddess’s service.”

Elves were always so careful about keeping their emotions in check in front of outsiders. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Meanwhile there were tears springing to her eyes and her face was blotchy, nearly as red as her hair. “But I’ll miss you,” she burst out. “The village girls all think I’m stuck-up because my family has a few more goats than theirs. I won’t have anyone to show me the patterns in the stars or tell me stories I haven’t heard yet.”

As stupid as she was sure she looked, his gaze held nothing but compassion. “I’ll miss you too, Ci. When the messenger comes to fetch letters from my family, I’ll tell him to carry my letters to you, too.”

“You’ll write to me?” She’d never thought of herself as that important to him. How could an awkward sweaty clumsy human be important to an elf?

“Every day.” When he turned the full force of his golden gaze on her, when his slender fingers caught hers, it took away her breath.

The elf community living in the woods and the human community living in the fields had an uneasy truce. The humans needed the elves’ magic and superior hunting skills, and the elves really liked their chicken eggs and cow milk. But there were always rumors about elves stealing human women away. Looking into Falcon’s eyes, Ciannait thought that those women had absolutely wanted to be stolen.

“Ci,” he breathed. “You must know- as a priest, I’ll never be expected to marry. Never take a lover. My body and soul will be dedicated entirely to the Goddess.”

She moistened her lips, barely able to speak. Surely he wasn’t flirting with her! None of the village boys had ever been interested in the freckly girl with her head in a clouds and her nose in a book. Why would he be? Somehow she managed to dredge up the last fragments of her usual good cheer. “Well, it’s a great loss to elven womankind, that’s all I can say,” before tapping his nose playfully and twirling out of his grasp.

“I’ll write to you,” he repeated solemnly, folding his arms across his chest.

A call from the woods, the musical voice of a wood elf woman. “My son! The mage is here to escort you to Our Lady’s temple!”

“Goodbye, Ci,” he murmured, vanishing into the forest.

She could barely bring herself to reply “goodbye.”

Falcon’s last letter had been two months ago. He talked about how the elven army at the border had fallen to the orcs’ superior forces.

_I’m frightened, Ci. All of the priests are. They’re evacuating the young boys and the elderly; those of us who have been ordained have pledged to stay and fight to defend the Goddess’s sanctum. Include me in your evening prayers. I’ll do the same for you. Maybe one of our deities will listen. I hope only that I shall be killed rather than being forced to submit to a stranger who will scorn and despise me._

Odds were he’d fallen in battle. She’d asked the orc women she was friendly with (even for a human with no magic, she was a good healer, and they’d paid her to treat some of their lower-ranking wounded) if they knew anything of an elven man called Falcon. They all just shrugged. But she’s not here for love. She’s not even here for sex, can’t picture any of the frightened men she’d seen welcoming any sort of touch. She’s here because the orcs have given her a lot of land for a healing garden, and she needs help to weed and plant.

A glance at the town hall clock over the rooftops: it’s past noon. She’s late. Might as well get this over with, Ciannait tells herself, and pushes over the tavern door.

***

They’ve built a little stage at the back of the tavern to drag men onto. So mostly it’s been human and orc men so far. The humans are largely from the mountains, a few days’ ride away, while the orcs are from all over. Ciannait is waiting for the elven men. Due to knowledge of plants being a vital part of wood elf culture, and gendered elven divisions of labor being somewhat less strict than human ones, an elf would be best suited to help her in her work. Plus, not all elves speak the human language of this country, and she has a fair knowledge of their language. There are too many women who would interpret “doesn’t speak the same language as me, has no idea what I’m saying” as an excuse for punishment.

“Ciannait! What do you think- isn’t he cute?” One of her friends (well, someone she talks to sometimes; she never really did end up becoming all that close to the village girls) skips up to her dragging her latest acquisition.

Brown hair, brown eyes, bite marks on his bare chest. Ciannait gives a smile like she cares. “He looks lovely, Marilda. But from the way he’s holding that arm, I think the orc bite on his shoulder might be getting infected.”

The kept man’s shoulders sag as if in anticipation of punishment. Ciannait is right.

“All right, sell me something for infection, then,” Marilda says with a roll of her eyes. While some lower ranking orc warriors are cleaning the stage of assorted bodily fluids, a potion and some gold changes hands.

“Drink all of it! I don’t care if it tastes disgusting, you’re not going to die because of something some other woman did!” Marilda lectures her man as they walk away, back to their seats.

Finally one of the orcs comes back out onto the platform. “Okay! We’ve saved one of the best for last. Normally he would be very high-priced, but he’s been ill and lost some weight, so he’s not as pretty as he could be.” They bring him out with a hood over his head like a bird would wear, his ankles bound together so that he can only take small steps. His long-fingered hands are out in front of him like he’s trying not to fall. One of the orc women trips him and then, giggling, yanks him up by his braid.

“This unworthy creature’s use-name is Sparrow. We captured him in the elven temple to the goddess, where he served as a healer and priest.”

Cianna sat up a little straighter. There weren’t that many men who served as priests. Surely he can tell her what has happened to her friend! If he’s dead, at least he’s at peace; if he lives, well, women are still allowed to talk to other women’s men. Maybe she can talk whoever controlled him now out of hurting him too badly. Maybe she can even buy Sparrow so that he’ll be safe!

“Like all of his brethren, he was pure and chaste, untouched by any hands but his own- now he’s a slut who’ll beg for it with his ass in the air!” And the woman running the auction yanks off the hood.

“Please fuck me,” the wood elf manages through sobs. “I don’t want to travel along with the army anymore, I’m not strong enough, I’m just a whore-“

Ciannait’s mouth falls open. Because that’s Falcon. She knows his face as well as she knows her own; he sent her a picture of himself years ago, when they were nineteen, and she spent ages every day staring at that picture, to the point where her parents threatened to take it away if she wouldn’t stop mooning over the elf. (Of course, none of her letters had ever mentioned how attractive she found him! Falcon’s body was sworn only to the Goddess, after all. And it wasn’t like he flirted with her.)

His big green eyes and smooth aquiline features and long, perfectly straight copper hair. Instead of dark hunting gear or the layered robes of a priest, he wears nothing except a jeweled chain connecting his sore-looking nipples and a silky handkerchief on another chain over his crotch. There are nasty-looking wounds on his back when they spin him around that look like they’ve just scabbed over, and his ass is covered with overlapping red welts, some of them having broken the skin. Not to mention the bruises. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. And he could use a good meal. A lot of good meals.

But it’s Falcon- her Falcon.

There are rules against women taking charge of men they were related to, because they might be too inclined to go easy on them. That includes husbands. But relationships like friends, classmates, neighbors? The orcs have never had any problems related to that.

No wonder the orcs couldn’t tell her what had happened to him, though. They don’t let any of the men keep their names in public. It’s a way to humiliate them. The only woman who knows who he was before is the one who broke him, and she could be anywhere in the kingdom now.

Maybe the village’s other women sense the change in her demeanor, the way she suddenly goes from “I don’t care at all” to “I care so much I might just poison someone in their sleep.” Or maybe it’s just the fact that, amongst the men being sold today, he looks like one of the least healthy. But no one bids against her.

“Sold t’the woman with the cream-colored kerchief near the back!”

Ciannait breathes out.

They give her an instruction manual (bullshit) and a bag of drugs (bullshit) along with handcuffs and a crop. “And if you have any problems with him, or if he doesn’t seem well-trained enough, or if he disobeys you in any way, or if he causes you in any trouble, or even if he’s just too needy, let us know!” an orc woman says, beaming toothily at her.

“Can I, umm…” She’s not sure how to phrase this question, so she just takes a stab at it. “What was his training like in the first place? I mean, I’m curious as to how he was trained…”

“Oh, that’s a good question! I think he was one of the elves picked from the temple? They were drugged to make them compliant, and then alternately subjected to withdrawal plus physical punishment, or adequate supplies of the drug plus daily edging, until they begged quite prettily for us to stop. Until they were willing to pray to us and not their Goddess.” Her grin is like a knife shining in a dark alleyway. “You’re the one who bought Sparrow, right? You’re a fortunate woman, you are. He won’t be too much of a handful.”

“Really,” Ciannait replies, the most noncommittal thing she can think of to say. Her hands are sweaty.

“Oh, yep. He gave us a lot of trouble at first, quoting his holy book nonstop, refusing food, and trying to incite the other men to escape attempts. But once he broke? He fucking shattered. He doesn’t just take orders, he anticipates them. Grazob, the soldier who oversaw the second stage of his training- she said it was really fun to punish him just to watch him try and figure out what he’d done wrong, even if he hadn’t fucked up at all. We went through a period of time where we were on the march and couldn’t spare food for the non-combat men, so he’s been trained to eat even less than most elves. He’s not one of those disobedient elf men who thinks he can have superfluous things like opinions or feelings. The word ‘no’ will never cross his lips. It might take some time before he’s healed up enough to work outside of the bedroom- he’s just too fun to hurt, what can I say- but odds are you won’t have a problem with him! Also, even for an elf man, he has a really high libido. And I mean REALLY high!”

Everything she says so cheerfully only makes Ciannait feel more and more concerned. She thought she was going to get her friend back. But what if that’s not the case? What if Falcon is totally broken and doesn’t even remember her? The orcs could make a fortune in ransom, she thinks. Offering to release prisoners of war back to their own communities. She would pay anything to have her friend safe. At last a tall female orc brings him out, collared and leashed, and tosses the leash to Ciannait. “Here you go. He shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

She just nods and starts walking away, because honestly the last thing she wants is to talk to any of these people.

Falcon is much taller than her. The last she remembered, his longer steps outpaced her own; now he lags behind, stumbling.

As they leave the building, the orcs are still watching her. She can’t be kind to him. “Hurry up,” she says exasperatedly, tugging on the leash.

A full-body flinch. “Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry, Mistress.”

One more block, and then they can turn, and then there’s a garden store with racks of bushes outside she can duck between, Falcon following along to keep the leash from going taut.

He holds himself stiffly, as if his body isn’t a safe place to be anymore. She thinks of all the pieces of art the orcs had defaced or locked away because it depicted a powerful man. Something beautiful, deliberately ruined. Just like her friend.

“Falcon.” And this time she can’t keep the tremble out of her voice. “Can I hug you?”

“I am obedient to your will, Mistress.” His voice is flat, his eyes empty, and she can’t help but feel a pang of frustration.

“Yes, but- what do you want?”

“Whatever you wish.” This time, there’s a flicker of fear, a quaver in his voice. He takes a half-step back, pressed against the shelves of herbs, and something inside her just breaks. All she wants to do is hold him, to reassure that no other woman will ever touch him again, that he’ll be so safe.

“Falcon- I mean, Sparrow.” She corrects herself when he flinches. “I really just want to hold you. I’ll be careful, okay?”

He nods tentatively- and she takes a step closer and throws her arms around him and buries her face in the fabric of his sleeveless undershirt. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong and fast beneath her ear. He smells horrible. She couldn’t care less.

Slowly, shakily, his arms come up to encircle her. “Ciannait... is it really you?”

She nods: I’m here.

“I didn’t even know if you were still alive...” Tears shatter his voice. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

There’s a million things she wants to say.

_I wish I’d told you how much I loved you._

_I hate seeing you so afraid._

_I’m so glad you remember me._

Instead she just says, “I’m here now, okay? And no one’s going to take you away from me. You don’t have to be scared.”

***

(Of course women are superior to men. And Ciannait’s always been superior to him, with how clever and kind she is, how good with her hands.

But it’s not going to be like his time with the mistress who broke him in, where no amount of begging would make punishments stop, where he was hurt more often for her amusement than because he’d done anything wrong. Ciannait won’t make him earn every bite of food on his knees, or at least she won’t feed him poisoned food. He doesn’t have to worry that she’s going to kill him if she loses her temper.

She’s so clean it almost hurts to touch her with how disgusting he is. She smells like lilacs and lavender and vanilla and her curls tickle his chin and he can feel how soft her breasts are where they press up against him. His cock stiffens a little in its spiked confinement, making him wince guiltily.

Men are like pets, the orcs said though, he never met a woman of the army who kept a dog or cat. But Ciannait feeds orphaned kittens and talks gently to chickens. Sparrow is going to be just as cared for as any bird fallen from its nest. Even if he can’t have her love, he’ll surely have her pity. That’s enough.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "why is this updating so often" because i'm procrastinating on my actual deadlines rip

Ciannait is the woman he least wants to see him like this. Or- no. Ciannait is the only woman he wants to see him like this. He can’t decide what to be anxious about. Just “she knows, she knows how bad I am, she knows how I’ve acted, she knows I was weak” buzzing in his head.

As a teenager, Sparrow always felt torn between his duty to the Goddess and the unbearable enormity of his feelings for his best friend. There had been moments- when he was young and hormonal and still trying to find a dose of celibacy herbs that would quell his needs without fogging his mind- where all he wanted was to read a letter saying: I miss you, I need you, you should come home.

Every Elf aspired to be called in dreams to the Goddess’s service. To receive the visions that would mark them as guardians of her legacy, of her sanctuaries in this world. But sometimes he wavered. He cared more about writing letters to her than copying out books of prayers, more about if she was earning enough to keep the family farm than if the temple could afford a new bell.

When the Orcs took the monastery and sexually tortured every man remaining, he kept thinking: this is my punishment for being disloyal to the Goddess. This is my punishment for wanting a mortal woman.

He knows better, now.

The Orc army needs no reason to punish a man.

“This is my cottage. You’ve seen it before, but- well, it’s mine now.” She’s put up a bench near the front porch and grown morning glories to twine around the porch beams.

He stumbles on the stairs. Hopes she doesn’t notice.

Unlocking the door, she asks, “The woman in charge of the sale, I didn’t catch her name- I heard you’d been sick?”

“I’m all right now.” He stays a step behind and to the left of her as they enter the cottage. It’s not entirely a lie- he took ill after being recaptured, because they didn’t feed him enough to get hard and then punished him for not performing sexually, left him to shiver in his own sweat, withheld the mushrooms he needed to function until he couldn’t manage to eat even though he wanted to. The Goddess came to him when he was at his lowest, her silver skin luminous, her dark eyes kind: _you’re not meant to die here, Falcon. Keep breathing. I’ll take care of everything else._

And then one day he woke up with his head clear, knowing that if he could just remain obedient, he’d survive. Jumbled, inexplicable memories of that time come forth occasionally. The other men pooled together to get him warm blankets and extra rations and mushroom tea. They told him that. But other recollections make less sense: smelling fresh herbs and flowers, hearing a woman’s voice singing him to sleep.

Has he committed heresy by having fever-dreams about the Goddess? Who knows? Being alive is enough to process.

When Ciannait says she’ll keep him safe- does she mean it? Does she even have that power?

She looks back at him over her shoulder.

Fuck. How has she gotten so beautiful in the years they’ve been apart, when he’s just withered into this pathetic thing? Her loose homespun garments do nothing to hide the gorgeous ample swell of her figure, the way her breasts could fill a man’s hands. What color are her nipples? Rosy? Peach? Brown? What would they be like to suck?

Sparrow doesn’t know what he likes sexually, but he’s never thought of himself as an ass man. It’s so easy to cause pain there. What are asses even for except something to mark up and jab into? But looking at the plush, ripe fullness of her bum… how would it move if a man pleased her from behind? Of course she wouldn’t want him, but- fuck, she’s so soft.

Then a thought hits him like a battlemage’s spell: does she still have freckles all over her arms and legs? Maybe not as many in areas covered by her clothes year-round, since she’s too old to jump naked into the river, but…

Freckles on her thighs, fuck. The spiked cock cage is causing him agony, but it’s so hard to think of anything else.

A casual question cuts off his train of thought. “How long have you been wearing those dirty rags, anyway? I’m going to help you wash off and find you some clean clothes. I know for sure I’d want to be clean if I were you.” And, trying to make a joke: “Yknow, the army says all men only want one thing. They say that one thing is sex, but I’ve seen a lot of men who’d be just as happy with some warm clothes and a meal they don’t have to beg for.”

She talks so easily about being kind to men. That scares him. He stops in his tracks, distracted from his pain. “Ciannait, if anyone hears you talking like that… They hurt rebels. They hang them up in the town square or have them raped by orc men. Even rebels who are women.” One of his former owners, Grazob, took him to a public execution once. The injustice brought him to tears: how could a culture that claimed to revere women’s superiority do this? Then a woman with red hair was marched up to the stocks, and he thought of Ciannait. Even when Grazob threatened to have her guards use his ass if he didn’t shut up, he just cried harder.

“Hey.” Her warm hand closes around his. She barely comes up to his chest, but the determination in her eyes makes him feel small. “You have nothing to worry about. I may not have any love for the Orc empress, but I play it smart. I do what it takes to survive. I think you’re like that, too.”

“…Yeah.” He resists asking her for another hug.

There’s a little bathroom attached to Ciannait’s room, and the first thing she does is put some towels down on the bed and wash him with a basin of cool, fresh water and goat’s milk soap. As if he can’t be trusted to do it himself. It’s not the most humiliating thing that has happened to him recently- in fact, there’s something almost relaxing about being groomed like a prized hound.

Ciannait talks to herself almost unconsciously the whole time she’s inspecting his body. “Oh, no,” prodding at a particularly bad bruise, or “I wish I’d known,” when she sees the thin yet deep slices on the soles of his feet. When she dabs at the cuts on his back, her hands are gentler than an orc’s. Warmer, too.

“It’s because I tried to run away when they first captured me,” Sparrow offers, shame twisting in his belly. She looks up- and the cage’s metal teeth bite his swelling cock, pinpoints of pain. He wants to wince and squirm and whine, but that would just make things worse.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Mis- Ciannait. I incited many of my fellow priests to try to escape our rightful place. Not all of them were recaptured.” 

Instead of being horrified, like a proper woman would, she beams at him, all freckles and the gap between her two front teeth. “You should tell me about it sometime. I bet you were brilliant. Stick your foot out so I can get this bandaged, all right?”

He really shouldn’t encourage her. Instead of being sensible, he grins back. 

Her hands are careful and deliberate as she smooths a greenish beeswax salve into the cuts. Instantly, the soreness there cools.

When she finishes wrapping the second bandage- not too loose, not too tight- she looks up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me about these?”

“I didn’t want you to know I was bad,” he says helplessly.

Her lips purse into an unamused line. “New rule: if you get hurt, you have to tell me, okay? Even if you think you deserve it. I need to know.”

He doesn’t trust himself to not call her Mistress, so he just nods.

Then she sits on the bed beside him and nods at his slightly damp underwear, the one piece of clothing he has left. “I need to get your arse. Let me fetch another jar of salve...”

He hates the idea. But it’s an order, and he’s too well-trained to disobey. So he strips, his eyes downcast, and lays on his stomach before she can look back at him and see the humiliating spiked contraption encircling his shaft. Except... there’s just as much shame in this position.

“Oh, no.” She doesn’t sound disgusted, just quietly sympathetic, which is almost worse. “Sparrow, how long have you had this in?”

She tugs the base of the butt plug; he can’t stop an uneven gasp from escaping him as the dry metal scrapes against his inner passage. “Six... six or so hours.”

Another experimental twist. This time he full-on whines.

“So they didn’t use enough grease, and the little they had is all dried... this might be painful.”

“Get it over with,” he grits out, burying his face in his arms.

“Take a deep breath for me-“

It’s over before he has a chance to scream.

He almost blacks out from the red flare of pain in a place that his mind still insists shouldn’t be hurt. The terrible vulnerability of it. Then she’s talking to him. “I’m so proud of you, you know that? Such a brave boy for me. You did so good. I’ll get you some cream for here, to keep any of this from getting infected, you can put it on before you go to bed.”

Good. For a moment, that’s all that matters to him. Not the humiliating lack of control he has over his arousal, the way he feels dizzy with want when he imagines her smoothing that cool salve inside his ass even as the spikes bite into his cock a little more. Not the fact that there’s no way she would ever want to use his body and she only took him on because she felt sorry for him. Just that he’s good and that she’s proud.

Her cupped palm traces the curve of his ass. You could hurt me more, he wants to say. You could do anything to me. Anything, as long as I’m yours. Instead, she just smoothes more salve over his bruises and cuts. Between her deliberate touch and the spikes of confinement threatening to puncture his cock, which is already trapped between his body and the mattress? Agony. It’s almost a relief when she says “okay, these are all disinfected, turn over.”

He rolls over, squeezing her eyes shut. Hears her gasp. “What... what is this for?”

Even though she’s not directly touching his cock, he can feel the nearness of her hand, its heat in the air. He can’t bear to look at her. “Because I’m a slut. A disgusting slut. Once they made me break my vows of chastity, I was horny all the time. I couldn’t stop touching my dirty, horrible cock.”

***

Ciannait knows about elf priests. They are- were- celibate, sworn to be lovers of their lunar goddess alone. They didn’t even touch themselves. They drank a herbal concoction to repress such desires.

Among the woman of the village, there are a lot of jokes and bawdy tales about elves off their herbs, and now she understands why.

Falcon’s cock would be a good size when freed, all thick and curved. She imagines him in a dungeon, naked except for chains manacled around his wrists, fisting his cock furiously and biting back whimpers or gasps...

_Don’t think about it, the army practically killed him. Find a wank fantasy somewhere else!_

“They said it was distracting,” he murmurs, his eyes downcast. “How I was always begging to touch it, and then begging to come. The way I would writhe in my bonds. The way I begged for stimulation on my useless cock even when I was being fucked and should have been content... I know it looks like it hurts, but I need it to maintain my self-control. Otherwise, I’m an infuriatingly needy whore.”

(Fuck. If he’s that horny all the time, he’s probably so easy to tease and wreck. She could just sit in his lap and kiss him and he’d be begging. “Please let me touch my cock, Mistress, it’s so hard- it hurts-“)

Mistress. Not Ciannait. Guilt hurts her heart. “Okay, so we keep the cage. But I think there’s a way to remove the spikes. Would that be better?”

“Please,” he groans.

Hopefully he won’t read into how hard she’s blushing.

There’s a tiny gold-plated key to remove the ring entirely, and a tiny silver-plated key to retract the spikes. Marks remain on his cock, an angry red, almost purple. She wants to soothe those places, bathe them with her tongue the way she’d taken a washcloth to his other wounds.

Falcon doesn’t need her looking at him like a barn cat at a mouse! “Clean yourself there,” she commands, turning away. 

He seemed to be trying to touch himself as little as possible; stifled whimpers left him with each touch of the cloth.

 _If his cock was somewhere softer... between my breasts, maybe... he’d gasp with pleasure, not with shame._ Had any of those orc women ever teased him like that? Ever ridden his cock? She didn’t think so. _Orc women never deny themselves anything. They’d never hold back from using that lovely shaft after having a go._

“Done.” He says at last.

“Okay. Pat yourself dry- careful not to re-open any of those cuts- and I’ll get you something to wear. My brother’s old things will fit, I think.”

By the time she returns with an armful of clothing, he’s asleep, the jar of cream still open on the dresser, one knee drawn up as if to guard his crotch. With his long reddish hair unbound, bruises still painting his skin, he looks fragile and beautiful. She wants to unlace her dress and lie beside him and cover his body with her own. Love him with all the force of her magic. Shield him from everything, even his dreams.

Everyone’s heard of the orcs executing women. Women who refused to surrender their husbands or lovers to be trained and made subservient by the orcs, who were ready to fight to the death in defiance.

Ciannait was no fighter, but she understands what it would be like to love someone that much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw disordered eating i guess

Ciannait brings him soup. It smells amazing. Chicken broth and parsley and cooked vegetables and little pieces of chicken that he knows will melt in his mouth.

The thing is? Food is always a test. No matter how good it smells, it tastes terrible, and the orc who broke him in will laugh when he gags.

“I’m not hungry,” he says automatically. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her. She probably spent a lot of money on buying him. He wouldn’t want to be more expensive- and he would rather skip another meal than feel the familiar disgusting viscous taste of another poison in his mouth.

Sorrow crosses Ciannait’s face for a moment. She takes a spoonful of soup and brings it to her lips, blows on it for a moment before swallowing. “See? It’s really good. And I’ve already eaten. It’ll be cold by the time I finish it...”

She wants him to eat. It’s almost a struggle to keep a civilized pace, instead of grabbing the whole bowl and pouring it into his mouth. Spoonful by spoonful, just like she did.

It tastes so good. He almost cries. No poison or sour plants or musky-tasting body fluids of Orcish men who laugh at him. Just soup, the vegetables so soft he could cut them with his spoon. He can’t help but ask “Are you sure this is all right? I’m... I’m not eating too much?”

“I like watching you eat. It means I’m a good cook.” 

When the familiar panic buzzes in his head again, she’s right there beside him, petting his hair until his jaw unclenches. “I know you’re probably not used to a whole meal, but can you take a few more sips of the broth, at least?” And when he does, she says “That’s it, you’re doing so good,” and something inside him comes undone.

He’s seen her like this with animals. Cradling a kitten and feeding it milk with an eyedropper. There’s no way she could love him the way he is now, but there’s something so careful and tender about her pity that he almost doesn’t care.

“Such a good boy,” she breathes. He drinks all the broth just to watch her eyes light up.

For the first time in a long while, hunger eases its grip on him.

While she’s clearing the dishes away, he starts to panic. “Please- Mistress- I mean, Ciannait- I, I’m not allowed to be in a woman’s bed unless I’m servicing her. Would you like me to sleep on the floor? I’ll sleep on the floor, just don’t make me break the rules...”

She looks him up and down. He wishes he could present a more appealing picture; that he was still the strong, proud, impeccably groomed man he’d been as the Goddess’s servant. Instead, he looks like what he is. A prisoner in borrowed clothes, clean but unadorned.

Thoughtfully, she says, “You know what? I’m always cold at night, actually. It’s such a hassle to have to get out of bed to tend a fire. If you could sleep in the same bed as me, I wouldn’t be cold.” The sparkle in her eyes makes him feel like he’s getting away with something.

“Yes, Ciannait.” He wants to call her Lady, the way he spoke to the grand statue of the Goddess. Blessed Lady, healer, blessed Ciannait. But maybe she knows enough about Elven culture to pick up on a slip like that.

She holds him, her head tucked underneath his chin, legs almost touching his. Her body is like a little plump furnace, softness radiating heat. No woman has ever held him like this- no orcish woman would ever dare lower herself to care for a lowly elf that didn’t even belong to anyone personally. Ciannait clings to him as if she’s listening to his heartbeat to find her way home. Her lovely freckled face looks as round and peaceful as the moon. His cock still aches, but it’s just a dull pressure from the metal ring now, not the wincing agony of the spikes.

Sparrow doesn’t remember falling asleep- but at some point he jolts awake, crying out in panic, all his limbs thrashing. He doesn’t remember dreaming, just a feeling of fear. Fuck! He’s going to be punished so badly for this.

Just as he’s about to scramble out from beneath the covers, Ciannait lays a hand on his chest. “It’s all right, Sparrow. Go back to sleep… you need anything?” Her voice is low, laden with dreams, and soothes him effortlessly.

“I just- I forgot I was allowed in your bed.”

“Mmm.” Ciannait drapes herself over him, a short, chubby blanket. “You’re not just allowed in my bed, I’ve decided it’s a core part of your duties. Usually I stay awake for ages after I’ve decided I want to sleep, no matter how tired I am- thinking about patients who aren’t doing well, trips to other villages I should make, families who are going to have babies soon… there’s so much on my mind. Then I always get out of bed and go over my books of herb lore, or notice some chore I need to do. Tonight, though? I just thought you’d sleep better if I was here. I told myself you’d be scared if you woke up and couldn’t find me, and that I didn’t want to wake you. I was out like a light.”

It feels good to be clean, to know that his hair has been braided rather than just pulled back for ease of use- and it feels even better when she strokes a stray lock. “Get some rest, Sparrow. You need it.”

It’s an order. She gave him an order. She thinks he’s worth ordering around... worth keeping.

He gets to be hers.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Ciannait isn’t there, but she’s left a letter for him on the kitchen table.

_Zi lelliath-_

At that he has to stop and try not to laugh. She probably meant “friend” in Elven, but she’s used a very old word- the closest human equivalent would be “comrade” or “sworn sword.” Her knowledge of the language always did come exclusively from books.

_I’ve gone to attend a birth- the Audey girl’s second, we’re all hoping it’s a daughter- but the pamphlet says the first thing any owner of a man should do is set out expectations. Well, here are mine._

_I (still) hate cooking. You’re in charge of keeping me fed. That means meal planning, purchasing ingredients from the market, and the actual preparation of food. Possibly also extends to shoving a plate in front of me if I haven’t eaten in more than twelve hours, because I keep forgetting things like that._

He’s also supposed to clean, do laundry, and take care of the chickens in the coop out back. Thank the Goddess. She didn’t just get him out of pity- she thinks he can actually be helpful.

Does she want him to service her in... other ways, too? The cage feels so much easier to bear without the spikes. He’s almost disappointed at not feeling like his cock is going to start bleeding. It’s unfamiliar.

He flips to the next page of the letter: _You’ll sleep beside me for appearances’ sake, and because I need the rest. Of course I respect you too much to ask for anything more._

Damn. Does Ci not know how dangerous it is to talk like that, let alone put it in writing? Lucky she’s got such a devoted and hardworking man to cover for her.

He reads on: _I will provide physical punishment if you request it, or if it’s required to keep up appearances. I can’t imagine actually getting mad at you, though._

_I think that’s all I need to cover._

_I know this situation isn’t ideal for either of us. I miss my brother. I know you miss your friends. But- (and then a few crossed-out sentences) if we work together, we can make the best of things._

That’s a question he almost wants to ask: what happened to Tadhg Hallowswift? He can’t picture the scrawny redheaded friend of his youth taking up arms, but... a clever insult at the wrong time, maybe? Hopefully Ciannait didn’t have to watch him die. Redheads are rare, right? And talented men, men with specialized training, stay alive longer. Surely some woman will be willing to tolerate a man with ideas above his station, in exchange for such a talented bard.

The other thing he wants to know is: when am I getting my Teshvanian mushrooms?

Yes, he’s heard it all before from assorted women. He’s a shroom slut. He’s a drugged-up slag. But the fact is while it’s possible to wean someone off the mushrooms, slowly and carefully (and it just makes one more vulnerable to future doses) unmitigated withdrawal kills as surely as any poison.

A gallows-humor thought experiment in the dungeons: how would you rather die? Overdose or withdrawal?

“Overdose,” he told his brethren, “I mean, at least that way you have a chance. If you can be made to spend enough... either way, at least you’d be too mad with lust to realize you were dying.”

Right now, he doesn’t have to worry about either. Ciannait will take care of it. He shouldn’t ask.

But as days go by, he grows increasingly unsure. Does she even know about the mushrooms? Can he bring himself to say anything?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear the next chapter is going to have some NSFW. really


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter... some more disordered eating as a result of trauma, i guess? also, suicidal ideation mention. ciannait does finally "lewd the elf," as someone suggested a few chapters back, but then has really bad post-nut regret. 
> 
> folk songs from https://womenshistorymonth.wordpress.com/resources/women-and-series/women-and-music/with-a-brace-of-pistols-all-at-her-side-kickass-women-in-folk-songs/

Sparrow is so helpful.

When she’s doing the time-consuming work of stirring some potion over a low boil, she can hear him singing in the next room as he does the laundry. When a woman comes to her door at three in the morning, frantic because her captive man’s cuts have gotten infected, she gets woken up not by screaming of “Healer, I need you!” but by Sparrow gently shaking her awake: “Pardon, but I think I heard a knock on the door.”

Although Ciannait won’t hand over all the tasks to him, she’s fine with giving him the tasks she doesn’t like. She cooks and he washes dishes afterwards. He helps her pull out tenacious weeds. The haunted, starved look starts to leave his face. Getting to sleep next to him every night, holding him? The way he curls up against her? That’s magnificent. Sometimes it takes her a while to actually fall asleep just because of how wet she is between her legs. He smells so good. Not like anything, except maybe olive-oil soap, but good and clean and warm, the way that only men and puppies do.

Even though he does all the cooking, he never wants to eat, and he’d rather faint than admit to hunger. “A man wouldn’t eat the same sort of things as a woman, Mistress Ciannait. It’s too fine for me. Don’t you have any scraps or leftovers?”

“You’ll eat what I bid you,” she tells him. He can manage some meals like an actual person, sitting at the table, talking with her about the day’s duties and the labor ahead. But sometimes he’ll just stare at the food, eyes empty, not hearing her orders, and slide from his chair to kneel on the floor.

 _Where are you?_ She always wonders. _What are you thinking about?_ “Sparrow, look at me.” She touches his elegant face, his bare shoulders. Pushes his hair back, careful not to make contact with the sensitive tips of his ears. “Come back, please?”

At last he blinks, seeming to startle awake. “Hmm?”

“Would it help if I fed you?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, seeming to struggle with himself. “I don’t want to take up so much of your time-“

“You’ll take up more of my time if you get sick from not eating. Would it help to eat out of my hands, yes or no?”

“Yes-“ and all the tension seems to ebb from his body, leaving him loose-limbed, trusting, beautiful. He takes food from between her fingers with his mouth like a well-trained dog taking a treat.

“As lovely as you are, you’ll look even prettier once you’re not so scrawny. I know some orcs like men that are all bones and breakability, but I don’t want that at all.” And she can’t help asking: “Has anyone ever fed you like this before?”

It takes him forever to shake his head. A few days later, she has to feed him again. Little bites of spiced bean patty, broken off the whole, offered between her fingers. He’s so quiet, head bowed, just taking what she gives him, suckling softly at her fingertips. What happened to him? Who took the clever, laughing young man she’d known and made him so quiet and still? “Hey,” Ciannait says.

“Hmm?”

“You ate the whole bean patty. I guess your stomach is unshrinking. That’s good, right?”

He shifts on his haunches. “I mean, I don’t want to get too used to three meals a day. Most women… it’s standard to withhold food as a punishment.”

She wants to tilt up his chin, force him to meet her eyes, kiss him on the forehead and everywhere else. Why doesn’t he fucking understand he’s safe? “Well, screw that. You’re not with most women, you’re with me, and I plan on keeping you around for the long haul. If three meals a day isn’t working for your body, we can switch to four smaller meals, or six snacks. If handfeeding you six times a day will make you feel safer, we’ll do that. No one’s allowed to starve you. Not even yourself.”

That draws forth a smile- not just contentment or the absence of fear, but a tiny sunbeam of actual joy. 

Sleeping in the same bed as him… she suggested it because otherwise he’d endure nightmares in silence, or even be unable to sleep at all, without telling her. “You know, I could set up a mattress on the floor,” she tells him one night, and he wilts. “Am I imposing on you? I’m sorry. I thought it would be all right. I know I really haven’t earned sleeping in your bed-“

“Sparrow. We’re friends, aren’t we? I don’t want to know what you’ve earned, I want to know what you’d like.”

A blush paints his cheeks, his eyes downcast. “If I’m not a burden… I like keeping you near, Ciannait. Your presence, your scent- it’s familiar. Hearing your voice soothes me and reminds me of where I am.” 

The way he used his mouth to take food left her tormented by irresistible fantasies of how his soft lips and deft tongue would feel on her cunt. The way he acts when sleeping in the same bed as her, though? That has her screaming internally all on its own.

He wraps around her, legs entangled with hers, one arm casually flung over her breasts, head tucked into her neck. Every movement he makes only brings them closer.

Sometimes he curls up, smaller than such a tall, lanky man would seem capable of, and she holds him. He’s as warm and soft as a dog, but he doesn’t shove paws against her face or take up the whole bed like a dog would. They talk about things like the town’s upcoming festivals (Ciannait plans to make an obligatory appearance, mostly for the dancing) or what Sparrow would be doing at the monastery right now (holding moon-vigil, mostly) or where Tadhg might be. They always tell each other that he’s still alive.

His nightmares wake her up first. A whimper cuts through unconsciousness, and Ciannait returns to her dark, warm bedroom.

“No, please.” Sparrow has rolled away from her. He twitches like he’s trying to shrink into himself, limbs jerking. “I don’t want to… don’t…”

Trial and error means she knows what to do. She rests a hand on his back and starts singing. “Sovay, Sovay all on a day, she dressed herself in man's array, with a brace of pistols all by her side, to meet her own true love she rides..”

Once she shook him awake. It would stop his suffering, right? He shoved her away reflexively- and panicked, eyes glinting like a cat’s in the moonlight, when he realized what he’d done. “You don’t have to forgive me. Men are awful, men are the worst, I’m a brute, I deserve to be leashed, I should sleep outside,” he kept saying, His shoulders rose and fell with panic.

“You were having a nightmare,” she tried to tell him. “You didn’t know who I was, where you were-“

Gripping his knees, he rocked back and forth. “No. I should have known, I should have known better. I’m evil. I’m bad. You should hit me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Eventually he grew weak from hyperventilating and nearly swooned. She gathered him into her arms and stroked his hair until he stopped trying to blurt apologies. It’s not a mistake she’ll make again. All she can do is be there when he wakes. 

He jerks awake at the diamond ring verse. She keeps singing and rubs slow circles on his back, encouraging him to breathe. A few verses into When I Was A Fair Maid, his rigid body eases. She lets the tune trail off. “Hey. You back with me?”

“Ciannait.” At least it’s her name- though, from the way he stares at the wall, maybe he’s just saying it. Then he shakes himself, looks at her. “Ci. I was… I thought they took me away from you.”

Not happening. Never. “What can I do to help?”

His eyes are wide like a hunted animal’s as he lies back down. “Stay with me?”

When she stretches out next to him, he curls against her, face buried in her curls. 

Her scent, he said. It soothes him. How is she supposed to just lie there unaffected knowing that he’s smelling her?

Sometimes she wakes to him humping the air. As she sings to him, he shifts his hips, little uncomfortable restless motions. He’s hard in his cage.

Of course they’re not going to talk about it.

Of course she’s going to be thinking about it all night.

Has anyone ever kissed him? Has anyone made him cry; not from agony and helplessness, but from pleasure? Has he even known what it’s like to feel good, or only overstimulation? She wants to ruin him. Make him feel better than any other woman ever has. Until all he can do is thank her and beg for more and weep.

But he’s endured so much at the hands of sexually aggressive women, orc and human alike. They’ve always been close friends, with no sensual undercurrents. He needs time and space to heal. She’s aware of what his cock looks like, the heights his libido has soared to, the enchanted ring that keeps him from masturbating as much as he wants. She’s just being really careful to not think about it.

The thing is, though: Sparrow’s been taught how to please women. How to objectify himself as much as possible. And everything he does, no matter how unconsciously, seems calculated to drive her completely wild.

The way he walks around the cottage in nothing but a dancer’s loincloth, because that’s what he’s used to wearing. “And it would reflect badly on you if I was overdressed, right?” He asks that so innocently, though her eyes trace every line of his body, all that long hair and bare silky skin, the clean lines of his exposed limbs. At least when fall and winter come he’ll cover up. 

The way he can never stay quiet: not just how he hums to himself when he’s cooking or talks in Elven to the plants, his voice low and liquid and gorgeous, but the way he bites back noises when she’s changing his bandages. When she runs her palms down his back to make sure his muscles haven’t knotted up again, or applies salve to keep old injuries from scarring, his breathing grows audibly ragged. Once, when her fingers hover too close to his loincloth, he even moans.

So one evening she just makes up an errand to send him on. Writes a note with some everyday village gossip, “how are you doing,” that sort of thing, attaches it to a satchet of lavender. “Take this to Ellory’s house, okay?”

Sparrow gives a slight bow. “Will do.”

Ellory is a woman who lives all the way at the other end of the village. He wouldn’t run- if a man runs, people assume he’s caused trouble- so that gives her perhaps half an hour each way.

Ciannait flops into bed. Her dress, pinafore, and stockings end up a heap on the floorboards. She crawls under the covers, folds one of the big pillows in half, and jams it between her legs. Just staying there and breathing like that, having something press against her clit at last instead of leaving it throbbing untouched, feels so much better. She imagines being on a throne, beautiful men stroking her through her smallclothes, feeding her grapes… or taking a trip to one of the orcs’ rooms for milking, where men are hooked up to contraptions and trying to stifle noises of agony, unable to hold in their cum. Maybe some muscular, powerful man- big enough to just scoop her into his arms- weeping openly and kissing her ankles. Maybe being worshipped and stroked all over. 

The thing is, being horny always messes with her judgement. Just enough to do things she wouldn’t usually, like asking someone to dance at the village fete or buying a whole stack of naughty books from a peddler when she ought to save the money.

Right now that part of her mind is whispering: you could masturbate to Sparrow. He’d never find out.

She wants him, not some beautiful stranger or imaginary knight. She wants the only man she’s ever loved.

Giving in, moving in time with her imagination, feels amazing. Like her body’s just been waiting for her scruples to get out of pleasure’s way. She imagines grinding on Sparrow’s muscular thigh, on his long, deft fingers. “I’ve made you burn for me, Ci. Let me take care of you- it’s only fair.” Stroking her legs, holding her hips to guide her movements, playing with her breasts. She imagines how reverent and awed he’d look, bowing his head to kiss her nipples, stroking her through her drawers with steady, coaxing motions.

Fuck. She’s never been this soaked. Never wanted anyone or anything as much as she craves sinking teeth into his pale, bruised flesh.

She imagines... not hurting him, he’s not ready for that, but teasing him. Telling him “you can put your cock in me... but just the head,” or sliding her folds up and down his shaft, teasing her entrance with the possibility. Stroking his cock with a single finger. How he might plead. And if another woman even looked at him for a moment too long, even made him flinch, Ciannait would destroy her. Sparrow would come to her for protection. For everything.

She’d unlock his cage with the key between her breasts- the key on the silver chain that bounces with her every movement- and then just breathe on the head of his cock, and he’d go all pink and shivery, biting his lip, turning away- and she’d tell him, “Let me see you, sweetheart,” and kiss the inside of his thighs- and he’d… he would-

Ciannait clamps her mouth shut and her legs together, flopping sideways with the pillow still squeezed against her slick cunt, and comes so hard she ends up tumbling onto the floor. It hurts, eventually. She rubs her head- nope, doesn’t feel like a concussion. The pillow lies near her. A big patch of it is damp from her fluids.

Grief and shame hits her like falling onto the floor again. There’s no way around it. She just masturbated to the idea of owning another sentient being. Ciannait looks up at the ceiling, cooling sweat and the warm keys between her breasts. “I wish I was dead.” No, that’s wrong. “I wish I _were_ dead,” she groans. At least her moral bankruptcy is grammatically correct.

Sparrow trusts her.

Ciannait fills the tub a quarter of the way and takes a quick rinse, scrubbing hard enough to hurt. She doesn’t need the cold water to dampen her arousal, not after sating it- she just doesn’t deserve nice things such as warm baths.

She needs to be someone Sparrow can trust. Otherwise, she’s just a greedy, perverted bitch. Sobbing, she rips the comb through her wet, tangled curls. It hurts like hell. It ought to hurt. She scours her skin dry and puts on the first clean dress in her closet.

Sparrow _trusts_ her!

To eradicate any trace of pleasure still clinging to her skin, she grabs a delicate bottle of lilac perfume (saved for special occasions, ironically) spritzes it into the air, and walks through the cloud. Elves have very keen senses, after all.

Fuck. The bed linens. He’ll smell everything. How soon is Sparrow getting home? Too soon, the clock says. She rips the sheet and quilt off the bed, dumps out the washbasket, stuffs the bedding into the bottom, heaps the clothes back in, and flings a new sheet and quilt over the bare mattress. The pillows… maybe she can just move them around a little. She’ll put the tainted one on her side of the bed and toss some throw pillows on top.

She needs Sparrow to keep trusting her. Needs him to have someone he can trust.

By the time he comes in through the front door, she’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich of last night’s leftovers.

“I delivered the letter! Your map helped so much- this village has changed a great deal over the years. And I’m glad you’ve got yourself something to…” He sways on his feet, blinking. “…something to eat, Ci. I need to sit down.”

Maybe he’s tired. Being chained up in a dungeon has never enhanced anyone’s physical fitness. If they both go to sleep right away, that’s less time for her to feel guilty! “Get yourself a snack, okay? I’m going to get changed for bed.” In her room, the door closed behind her, she shuffles the pillows around some more, then turns off the lights so she can pretend to be asleep when he comes in.

He lays down beside her and falls asleep instantly. None of the usual cuddling up to her or playing with her hair, or asking her about what she did that day. Just out like a light.

If she didn’t know how deconditioned he was (she probably should have sent him on a shorter trip, with an excuse to linger more at his destination, like performing a follow-up examination on someone else’s man) she’d think he was ill.

The next morning, Sparrow faints silently in the middle of the kitchen floor.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear i'll get to the sex soon. really

Sparrow’s been with Ciannait for about a week, and he has no idea what he’s done wrong. His training is very specific: obey his Mistress in all ways, and wait to be offered the Teshvanian mushrooms that will keep him alive.

Ciannait sends him to deliver a letter to a cottage on the other side of the village. Maybe it’s a test! Maybe if he pushes through how dizzy and tired he feels, she’ll decide to help him. But walking along the cobblestone streets, groping from lamppost to lamppost, squinting at the blurry points of light, he can’t help but question.

Ciannait’s never owned a man before. And she doesn’t mix much with the villagers- she never used to, after all. She never mentioned going to the matriarchy seminars or reading the pamphlets, or treating a man suffering from withdrawal or overdose. After all, Ghorza’s army conquered the town less than a month ago. Sparrow himself was in the first batch of men sold to the village women.

Would he dare question Ciannait, even though she’s treated him with such kindness so far? He considers it and has to lean against a wall for a few minutes, which turns into crouching with his head between his legs, hyperventilating the cool night air and trying not to faint in public while his stomach flips over.

Ciannait may be giving him orders on a day-to-day basis. But the fact is, if she really wanted to keep him, he’d be marked by now. Branded, tattooed, maybe even collared if she wasn’t sure about making it permanent. Anything that would clearly indicate to her fellow women that Sparrow is taken. 

What more could he do to prove himself?

Why does he keep doubting her?

Sitting here won’t make it any easier. Sparrow drags himself to his feet and keeps plodding forward. He gets to the cottage, knocks on the door. Light blinds him when the woman opens it. He manages to croak something about a message from Ciannait. She asks, can her own man get him anything?

He shakes his head, which makes everything spin. There’s not much he could keep down right now. Water, maybe some plain bread or barley or rice- or the mushroom potion that would make all his organs work properly again and end this pain.

The woman at the door, just a blurry silhouette of shadow, says more things. 

Somehow he manages to not gag on: “I’m sorry, I have to get home.” He wants- needs- to not be conscious right now.

The streets. The lampposts. One foot, one cobblestone, one turn after another. Trudging onto a dirt pathway and through the grass.

_Please, Ciannait._

She doesn’t seem angry at him, but she doesn’t offer him the mushroom tea. Instead, she says something his ringing ears didn’t quite catch and leaves him alone in the kitchen. He puts another plate in the sink to make it look like he’s eaten before staggering towards bed (she’s already asleep, thank Goddess- he’s failed her somehow, he can’t bear to face her, maybe it would be a mercy if he died in his sleep rather than be sent away) and collapses on top of the blankets fully clothed.

The next morning, when he finally forces aching joints to move and drags himself out of bed, the smell of porridge with cinnamon overwhelms him. Grey clouds of fuzz fill his vision. He topples slowly, like a tree chopped down. 


	7. Chapter 7

Sparrow drowses for about an hour before feeling the familiar side effects of the potion. A stirring thickness between his legs, his cock feeling tight and oversensitive and needy, even the rasp of his shirt against his bare nipples making him gasp and whimper. Normally this would be agonizing, even unbearable. But without the spikes biting into his most sensitive flesh, just the dull, steady pressure of the unforgiving, immovable ring… he can bear this.

He didn’t notice it last night, foggy-headed in the throes of withdrawal. Now, though, it fills his mind. Ciannait pleasured herself in this bed. Her scent is so strong. Goddess have mercy on him- she rubbed her cunt on this pillow right here.

He reaches down to stroke himself and touches tight, unforgiving metal. The cage- he can’t bear it. It hurts. He settles for playing with his hard nipples: pinching and rubbing, whining, gasping. His best friend’s scent shatters him, mesmerizingly sweet. Has anyone ever feasted on her? Treasured her body in the way she deserves?

Fuck. She needs to know how beautiful she is, all her lush ample softness in magnificent swells. There’s so much of her and it’s all perfect. Her ass is like the moon.

Sparrow rolls onto his belly and shifts his hips. Even if the cage keeps him from getting any friction or pressure on his cock, his body screams at him to try. He needs to move.

No. Even without the cage, he wouldn’t touch himself. He wants to be good for his Mistress. He wants to think of her and ache. It’s like when he would kneel for hours in meditation to the Lady, ignoring the ache of stillness.

Only this time, his pain is a sacrifice to Ciannait. She might see it and be moved from her state of “arousal that she can’t be bothered to indulge,” which his heightened elven senses can smell taunting him at night like laughter on the wind, to a mood of actually using his body as it’s meant to be used. He’ll make himself beautiful and succumb to the trance of aching for her.

When Ciannait comes back-

No. She’ll be disgusted with him. The thought cuts through his arousal like a sharpened sword.

She winced at the butt plug, couldn’t bear looking at the cock cage. She sent him away so she could touch herself because she couldn’t have him near such an intimate act, not even in the garden or the woods beyond. She hasn’t even asked for the most innocent caresses.

She _doesn’t want him_. There’s no desire in her gentleness, only pity. He’s just one more rain-drenched stray found shivering on her doorstep. One more wounded wild bird.

The last time he was this aroused, he was on Grazob’s bedroll, his arms tied to spare tent stakes hammered into the ground. She and a friend laughed at him. They’d told him: if you can do this math problem, we’ll let you come!

It was a simple equation- but he couldn’t think.

“Are the mushrooms too strong for your self-control? It’s disgusting how badly you want it. Try to think with your head instead of your cock for a moment.” Grazob’s foot brushed over his cock, making him whine.

“Please.” He couldn’t form words besides begging. “Let me touch it. Let me come.” One stroke and he’d explode.

Grazob’s friend rolled her eyes, snorting. “All the other elves from your temple have learned to stop begging and obey orders by now. Why can’t you put up with your little cock being all swollen and nasty, hmm?”

He knew what to say. “Because I’m weak. I don’t have willpower- I’m a slut. I’m just a horny slut with full balls. A stupid, pathetic slut who’s let everyone down.”

“Well, at least you’ve recognized what you’re good for,” Grazob said with a chuckle.

He’s so predictable. The mushrooms make him horny and stupid- and now he sprawls in his best friend’s bed, clutching at the blankets, humping the mattress, letting out choked-off little moans, because he lacks the self-control to stop. He’s nothing but a whore. Not even a good one.

What will Ciannait do when she sees him? What if she yells at him and pulls his hair? What if she smacks his bare ass until it’s red-hot and stinging?

No. She’ll feel sorry for him. She’ll give him the key to his cage and go out to work in the garden, then make him a cup of tea while they rest afterwards, and they’ll never speak of this again. And he’ll diminish even further in her eyes.

Elven men are supposed to be chaste. Were, at least. It makes them more dedicated. Either they burn with desire for the Goddess, offering the unfulfilled lusts of their bodies as a sacrifice to her, their occasional release acts of worship and praise- or they would serve their One with the same rigid selflessness.

There are men who refuse to let mere physical pleasure overwhelm their will to fight, who can become mentally absent when orc women use them. Who pray and atone for their transgressions or punish their fallible flesh.

Then there’s him.

He’s failed as a priest, as a man, as an elf. Eating a meal can reduce him to tears. Arousal from the mushrooms makes him little more than an animal.

Ciannait’s freckles, her soft arms and plump wrists, the way her breasts press together when she bends forward, the perfect luscious swell of her ass. Ciannait licking gravy from her spoon, crouching to check the garden soil, frowning at a novel.

Sometimes, in his small bed at the temple, he dreamed of her; could he not serve the Goddess and a mortal mistress? In the quiet of his small room, he stroked his own hair and shifted his legs together. But those dreams were silver moonlight falling over him, and this lust is a forest fire. Goddess, he needs.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how sleep-deprived am i? so sleep-deprived that i posted chapters out of order. i'm so sorry. this was supposed to be chapter seven.

Ciannait wasn't angry with him. She wasn't angry that he lied. She wasn't angry that he could have slipped into a coma out of sheer stupidity. 

And how is he repaying her kindness? Masturbating uncontrollably- or at least trying to do so- on her side of the bed! 

_“Please be okay. Please.”_

_He wakes on his back. Ciannait’s taken off her shawl and used it to prop up his bare feet, untied her apron and slid it under his head, and she’s dabbing his forehead with a cool washcloth. Everything blurs except her vivid curls and worried eyes._

_“What’s wrong? Do you think you caught something?”_

_What does she mean, what’s wrong? If she doesn’t know- “The Teshvanian mushrooms,” he manages, swallowing hard. “To keep us compliant, so we don’t run away- can’t, not like this.“_

_The washcloth on his forehead stills. “I stored them with my other herbs. I thought you’d dose yourself. Didn’t you see the package?”_

_What package? But when he thinks about it… “I saw mushrooms.” No woman would leave something so valuable out in the open. All Ghorza’s women have lockboxes with number or letter codes. He’d figured she was saving dried vegetables for the winter. Hadn’t thought. Hadn’t dreamed._

_A long, shaky sigh. “Okay. This is okay, I can fix this… just lie still and try to stay conscious. I’ll be right back.” She moves away, skirts rustling._

_Sparrow reaches for her with the last of his strength. “Don’t go. Please.” He feels cold all over. Everything is distant except the hammering of his heart, loud and frantic in his ears, thudding out of his chest._

_“Stay right there. Just take deep breaths.” Her hand rests on his chest, guiding him. The way her palm stretches is the only spot of warmth in the world. Nothing feels real except for her touch holding him together, soothing him, coaxing him into staying alive._

_He breathes in and out._

_“That’s perfect. You’re perfect, you know that? Just like that. And it could have been worse, at least you didn’t decide to fling a couple handfuls of dried mushrooms into the soup…” Soft curls trail over his closed eyelids like willow leaves in the wind. A kiss, so swift and light he might have hallucinated it._

_Then she’s gone for some time. There’s stomping footsteps, water sloshing. He drifts in and out of consciousness. The kettle whistles. Her footsteps again, back towards him. “Okay. Okay. You’re still with me. Good Sparrow. Can I help you sit up?”_

_Nodding makes his head hurt; as long as she doesn’t move him too quickly, he’ll try to stay conscious. She eases him up to rest his head in her lap. A warm wet cloth touches his lips. It smells like Teshvanian mushrooms, like lichen and dirt and raw potatoes. Sparrow fastens his lips around the cloth and sucks eagerly each time it’s brought to his mouth again. At last the world comes back into focus._

_She brushes his hair back, grazing his ear, which makes him shiver. “Hey, beautiful. Are you back with me? That was a close one. Who dosed you last?”_

_His past Mistress, one week before the sale- but the more he thinks about it, the more foolish he feels. Of course Ciannait wouldn’t let him die. Why was he so stupid? Why didn’t he trust her?_

_How could he have known to trust her? No other woman in the new world order- at least, no woman he’s known- acts like this._

_She smiles so much, but can’t stand to look at him shirtless. She holds him close at night, but hasn’t even asked him to lick her cunt. What does she even want from him?_

_Why doesn’t Ciannait make sense?_

_“I’m feeling a bit better now, not quite as weak. Mostly I was just so terrified that I’d done something wrong.” Hopefully she won’t press him for an answer if he ignores the question._

_“You didn’t. I fucked up.” She blinks as if trying to keep tears away before putting a smile back on and saying in a rush, “I brewed it for five minutes, and you’ve taken about three-fourths of a cup. Is that enough of a dose for you? I’ve treated withdrawals before. And overdoses. I should have seen the signs instead of assuming that everything was fine and you’d tell me if you weren’t feeling well, or at least I should have checked the back of the cabinet and noticed you weren’t taking mushrooms out of the packet… I know everyone metabolizes things differently,” she finishes, voice and gaze dropping._

_Despite her attempts to hide it, she’s been crying, eyes red-rimmed and lashes spiked together, her breath still rushed. Sparrow hates seeing her like this. Hates that it’s his fault. He hurries to reassure her. “It’s enough of a dose. I’ll be all right. Although the women who trained me- I remember one of them noticing that I do better with a mouthful every day, as opposed to a larger dose once a week.”_

_In the afternoon sunlight, her features no longer blur. Freckles cover her snub nose and round cheeks, and she chews on the inside of her lower lip while thinking. “Got it. How does this stuff taste, anyway?”_

_No one’s ever asked. “Rotten mushrooms... bad soil. It’s not great.”_

_She wrinkles her nose. “How about I pop down to the market and see if I can find anything to improve the taste? I’m thinking...” She sniffs the liquid remaining in the teacup. “Orange peel. Maybe rosemary. Some good sugar or dark buckwheat honey. I could even get some actual medicinal mushrooms that have a similar flavor, and then we’ll just be drinking tea together. Are you feeling any better?”_

_“I should be recovered in an hour at most.” Hard and horny sooner. The mushrooms provoke helpless arousal before giving the strength to act on it. What will happen then? Will Ciannait unlock him? Could he finally get some answers about if she wants sex of any sort, with anyone at all? “I’ll be fine while you go to the market,” he adds. Some time alone might help him settle his thoughts. Arousal is confusing and overwhelming enough without throwing the woman he loves into the mix. Even the idea that his body will get turned on soon… it worries him._

_“How about in the meantime we get you off the floor?”_

_That, at least, he knows he wants._

_She helps him to bed, then bends over to tuck him in. The two keys for his cage hang on delicate chains between her rosy breasts. “I’ll be back soon. You get some rest.”_

Now the mushroom potion's kicked in and he's helplessly, uncontrollably horny, his cock prickling and throbbing. When will she return? And how embarrassed will she be about his shameful state?


	9. Chapter 9

Ciannait wasn’t angry that he’d lied to her. That he’d almost put himself into a coma from sheer stupidity.

And how is he repaying her? Squirming on her side of the bed, pinching his nipples until he has to stop to catch his breath. He’d do anything to be touched right now.

I should stop doing this, Sparrow thinks, grinding his hips against the bedding. I should bathe in some cold water, go hide in the woods, anything except writhing in my best friend’s bed.

Instead he rolls over to Ciannait’s side of the bed and pulls the nightstand drawer open. Let’s see: unused stationery, half a pencil, a book with a bookmark in, and... is that a bottle of oil?

Hands shaking, he uncorks the bottle and tips a few drops onto his fingers. Slippery, lavender-scented oil.

Just one finger, just teasing at his entrance, clenching around it... he’ll still listen for Ciannait returning. He won’t go mindless with lust. He only comes when he’s forced to, when it’s part of some competition or trick to humiliate him. The rest of the time, he only received edges and ruins. He was used to that.

_They’re at an orc banquet, and he’s been made to strip and lay on a bench. “You can come,” Grazob says, dispassionately watching him thrust into his hand, palm slick and grip tight- then, right as his balls tighten in release- “Hands on the bench, NOW!” the soothing pressure is wrenched away, leaving his cock to spurt untouched._

_He thrusts into the air, tears blurring his vision. “Please, it hurts...”_

_She smirks down at him. “I said you could release. I didn’t say you could enjoy it. Now stay there until you can compose yourself,” and saunters away._

One time she had an orc man slam his huge cock in and out until he was right on the edge, shaking with pleasure. Then she said “pull out, finish on his back” to the orc, and “ice yourself down, you’re going back in the cage” to him.

Or she’d say, “you can come if you fuck me for one hundred thrusts without begging,” when he’s already desperate, in agony, on the verge of bursting.

Or she’d make him pull down his pants in public, stroking him until he’s hard and dripping precum, and then telling him to get back to work like nothing happened.

Of all the things he’s grateful to Ciannait for, he might be most grateful that she’s left his cock cage. It may feel frustrating and too tight, but at least he’s not sobbing in public with helpless arousal, so hard that he struggles to walk. Even alone, he can hardly imagine anything else.

He just wants steady strokes on his cock until release surges through him and his cum pours out, but he’s so used to being teased, left hard and wanting, and the closer he gets to cumming before having to pull away, the worse it feels. It’s like a wall in his mind.

And even a prostate orgasm, pushing out release that way, feels like too much to want.

But even the slightest brush over that swollen gland inside him drives away thought. “Oh,” he groans, hiding his face. He wants to come. He ought to stop.

Not without his mistress, not without orders, he wouldn’t dare-

He’s got two fingers hooked in his hole when the door swings open.

Ciannait, fully clothed complete with apron, her cheeks red from the fall cold, holding a cup of tea. She stares, speechless. Her face gets even redder. At last she blurts out,

“Let’s, um, take a moment. To get things tidied. And then we can talk,” before backing away and closing the door.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Yes, his cock hurts from the confining pressure of the cage, the rigid metal bars against sensitive skin. But his dignity, what’s left of it, aches even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter, i just really wanted to feel productive today and i figured everyone could use the distraction.


	10. Chapter 10

Yes, his cock hurts from the confining pressure of the cage, the rigid metal bars against sensitive skin. But his dignity, what’s left of it, aches even worse. The oil smeared on his ass and thighs would ruin the nice pants she gave him- she probably tailored them as well, he’s shorter than Tadhg- so he just ties a sheet around his hips and tries to sit still while waiting for her to come back in. The cage makes it easier to bear that much concealment.

A soft knock on the door. “Are you decent?”

Shame fills him. “As much as I can be.”

She comes in, looks at him- his messy hair, his bare chest- moves to sit on the bed, but stops, just standing there. (He’s disarrayed the mismatched pillows, spilled oil on the pastel quilt.) “Sparrow, I-“

He can’t stay silent. “Ciannait, please, you have to understand-“

She fiddles with her hair. “Sorry. You go.”

He’s had plenty of time to think. The words he pieced together come out in a rush. “I did something bad. I lied to you, and you should punish me.” That feels simple, right; he hurt Ciannait, so he deserves to be hurt. “I’m a bad person. You’ve been so kind to me... I don’t deserve you. I’ve been wicked and stupid and horrible, and you probably thought I was going to die just because I was too stupid and weak to ask for things.” And there’s another confession he needs to make, to pull himself across the polished light wood floor. She can decide if she still respects him after that. If she laughs, it’s only what he deserves. “And…” the words stick in his throat, but he forces them out. “I want to say how sorry I am for taking advantage of you.”

She flinches back, eyebrows taking a sharp upwards turn. “What?”

She didn’t expect an apology, but she deserves one. “You’ve done so much for me. Treated my wounds, fed me, kept me safe. And I’m lusting over you. I know it’s shameful and you don’t want me that way, but... the thought of you has always tormented me.” Tears gathering in his eyes, he rolls off the bed and crawls towards her. The sheet tied around his hips falls away. She’s so gentle, so kind, yet he repays her hospitality with sordid lust. Shame wrings words of confession from him-even if she’s furious, he needs to come.

“I have been trained to serve a woman with my body. When I look at you, I can think of nothing else. Do whatever you wish to punish me for my insolence. Just... I beg you, don’t leave me in this state.”

And he presses his forehead to the floor, not even daring to kiss her bare feet.

“What do you mean, always?”

He didn’t expect follow-up questions, and hesitates. “It’s embarrassing.”

A tug to his hair. Ciannait, crouching before him, forces him to look up. Her dark green flowing skirt drapes over her thick legs, revealing only shadows and shapes. “Then I order you to tell me. I don’t want you keeping secrets, Sparrow. I can’t look after you properly if you keep things from me.”

It’s the one secret no woman has managed to pull from him, not with caresses or torture, aphrodisiacs or knives. Whatever degrading words he had to recite, whatever secrets he had to bear, he never spoke of Ciannait.

But those women only owned his body. Ciannait... she has all of him.

A gust of wind rustles the oak and maple trees outside. She runs a hand through her already-wild curls, worrying at her lower lip. “I don’t understand what you’re saying right now, and I need you to tell me more. Sparrow- please?”

Maybe he’s just giving into the inevitable. Plus, a secret like this is too all-encompassing to stay concealed for long. (But what’s there to not understand about him being a slut?)

Most importantly: Ciannait ordered him to tell. So if she doesn’t like the answer, he was just obeying his mistress, and that’s on her.

“Even before the orc army arrived, before I had an excuse to be lustful… I committed heresy to the thought of you. I told myself, she’s such a holy woman, the Goddess won’t mind, it’s not like I’m going to come, just a few strokes. Sometimes my control faltered.” And the coup de grace, the secret that’s overshadowed his whole life: “They didn’t have to send me all the way to the temple for training, you know. But they wanted to. Because when they started looking for a proper elven woman to marry me to, I failed preliminary interviews- I was too obsessed with you. I didn’t want another earthly mistress. I wanted to stay. And I still want you, even though I don't deserve you anymore.”

There it is. The secret he spent his life as a free man keeping.

The ironic part is that as Falcon, strong and confident, who wore fine clothes and had his theological opinions respected, he might have had a chance. But Sparrow, frail, broken, an object of pity… He waits for the coin to drop, the blow to fall, and bows his head so a curtain of copper hair shelters him from sight.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS FOLX... LEWDING THE ELF

What?

What the hell?

What the entire hell in a handbasket wearing a doily? She just stares at him, trying to figure out what the hell to say in response to a revelation like that. None of her healer training, before or after the orc matriarchy took over, has prepared her for this. Nothing in her life has prepared her for this.

She’s worked so hard to not want him, standing outside her bedroom hyperventilating, trying not to think about how she just saw him jerk off. Trying to remind herself that Sparrow needs someone to take care of him. Someone to be his friend. But if he wants her- if he’s wanted her…

“You thought about me in that way?” Maybe he’s lying. Trying to appease her. She could tell if he was lying, right?

Sparrow bows further, lower lip trembling, his voice a whisper. “Always. Every year we were apart, every day, I missed you so much. I longed for you.” He peeks up at her through his hair, but evidently her expression doesn’t reassure him, because he bows low again. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not my place, I know I’m not worthy of you. You deserve a good man. One who could learn how to obey without his mistress having to break him. Not a stupid, rebellious slut like me… I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

Ciannait can’t speak to him when he’s kneeling like that, so she slides off the bed to sit on the floor beside him. He’s shaking; whether from arousal, fear, or both, she can’t tell. Her hands hover over his back for a moment. She has the urge to touch him, soothe him, but she can’t give in. She swallows hard. “You have nothing to apologize for. I do want you.” Saying it feels like lancing a boil, like peeling the bandages off a wound; something grotesque that needed to be done. Shame and self-hatred twist in her like snakes. Her stomach is a white-knuckled fist.

He lifts his head, something close to hope shining in his eyes. “Then I can serve you? I know you’ve been needful lately, physically. I would feel so useful- it would be an honor to slake your lusts.” A gentle, warm hand lands on her knee, long fingers splayed out. Fuck, it would feel so good to have his broad fingers stroking her, inside her, opening her up-

No. She can’t give in. He needs a friend. She pushes his hand away and stands up, moving back towards the bed. “Sparrow- Falcon- I understand that you might have felt a certain way about me before the war, before everything. And I know the mushrooms are giving you certain needs right now. Making you feel… more open to sex than you might be otherwise. I mean, you’re a beautiful man! Gentle. Exquisite. But you have to understand I can’t take advantage of you. I own you, and it doesn’t matter how I feel about you. It matters what’s right.” So many women have used him just for his body, heedless of what was best for him. Maybe he wants her when he’s high on the mushrooms- maybe he’s saying he wanted her in the hopes of physical relief- but how will he feel when he’s lucid again? To be one of the many women who’s hurt him…she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. “You’re, I mean- I’ve always-“

Obviously she can’t say what she’s thinking.

I used to stare at your eyelashes in school.

Before the war, I dreamed about you coming home from the temple and telling me you’d never leave.

I thought about how much I wanted to hear you telling the stories in your letters, your voice rising and falling, how I wanted to see that look on your face when you’re interested in a project, lean my head on your shoulder when I’m tired at night…

Instead of pulling away, he draws closer. Standing. Looming over her. It’s easy to forget how strikingly tall he is when he kneels; now he’s the priest-in-training who wrote to her, something powerful and cruel in the thin line of his mouth. “Ciannait, I’ve had everything taken from me. My home, my name, my right to say no. I have the right to consent, Mistress. At least let me say yes.”

Something inside her fears the permanence of claiming him, the drastic change of her fantasies becoming reality. The possibility that she could hurt him more than any other woman has before. She takes a step back, but he follows.

“If you don’t want me- if you think I’m disgusting, used-up, even if you just don’t see me that way- be honest. If you bought me just to protect me, my gratitude remains. But if you desire me, if you want to hurt me, own me, if I can be yours in every way-“

“I’m just so afraid I’ll hurt you.” She doesn’t know how. It’s just this nebulous cloud of fear surrounding her, covering hope.

“You said the rules are that I’m to be honest with you so we can be a team,” Sparrow reminded her. “If we’re working together, living together, we can’t both be afraid… and it’s not like I’ve been taught how to make the first move.” A sheepish little smile, letting his hair hide his face. 

She takes a deep breath. “Then I’ll try to be brave.”

And then Sparrow- Falcon, really- is in her arms, kissing her, his strong hands traveling over her body, awakening every inch of skin. It feels unfairly right.

This is what all the village women mean when they talk about wanting. About needing to have a man. She craves him. She’s drowning in it. It must feel so much worse for him, a fire that won’t go out, an itch that can’t be scratched.

“How do you want me to serve you, Mistress?” he murmurs in between kissing her neck with unbearable gentleness.

“Everything you do is good.” Especially when he swoops her up in his arms- holy shit he’s so much stronger than he looks- and lays her gently on the bed before kneeling between her legs.

“I want to see you undressed and kiss you all over. Mistress, please let me kiss your cunt.” Which, wow, that sounds incredible.

“I’ve never done this before. And I’m wearing too much clothes-“ Damn her cardigan, this apron that ties in the back, damn this blouse with all the little buttons, all these layers to sweat and squirm underneath. She understands why men wear those silly little loincloths and why orc women show so much skin.

Sparrow’s hands on ribbons and buttons are surer and steadier than her own. “I’ll be able to please you, I promise. Every woman I’ve been with has told me I’m very good at this.

When he bends to pull off her stockings, she pets his hair. “I don’t need you to be good at this. I just need you.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?”

“I am? But, you know... orcs.” She makes a series of motions illustrating the enormous bosoms and huge upper-body muscles of orc women, which, phwoar.

His smile curves against her cheek in between kisses. “When you’re happy, your whole face lights up. I’ve never seen an orc glow the way you do.”

In that instant, she believes him. She doesn’t feel too short or frumpy, doesn’t point out her stretch marks or leg hair. He looks at her like a goddess, so she is one. He’s going to worship her.

“Do you want to come for me, then? It must hurt, to have the mushroom’s effects raging through you, and have your cock locked away.” Without all her layers of clothing- she’s just in her breastband and drawers now- the golden key gleams against her pale, freckled skin, the metal hot between her breasts.

He stares at it, magnetically drawn, shifting his legs together restlessly- but manages to tear his gaze away, finding shaky control over his lusts. “Let me take care of you first. My conditioning… I think I get too nervous to come if the woman I’m with hasn’t gotten off first.”

“Show me what you’ve learned, my love.”

“Look at you. Goddess, you’re so exquisite it hurts my heart.” He kisses up her thighs, breath warm, and she shivers; kisses her through her drawers before guiding them down.

And then-

She buries her hands in the tumbling silk of his hair, whining under the onslaught of his impossible, coaxing mouth, the way he laps at her clit. Guilt and shame vanishes. All she feels, all she can feel, is an explosion of good.

He slips a broad finger inside her, giving her ravenous cunt something to clench against.

“That’s not enough. Three fingers at least.”

He listens and obeys. Her eyes roll back in her head. “That’s perfect, you’re perfect, you’re so good for me-“ her whole body is an undone knot, and all she can do is clutch his hair and writhe as pleasure sweeps through and over her.

When his touch softens, she grips his hair. “Again. Keep going-“ and he does. No thoughts, no fear, just the need inside her going: finally. Normally she gets off silently, lips squeezed together, face buried in the sheets, but Sparrow drags all sort of inhuman noises out of her. He’s so good at this- how is it even possible for him to be so good at this, silky hair in her hands and against her thighs, tongue flickering as he sucks on her clit- “You’re so good, you know that?” she manages. “You’re not a stupid slut. You’re not used up. You’re mine, and you’re so fucking good-” before her words dissolve into shuddering cries. 

“Hi,” she says at last, her whole body floating.

He looks up from between her legs, wide-eyed. “Was that good?”

She can’t help chuckling at his eagerness to please. “Yes, obviously.”

“I’d like it if...” he hides his face in her thigh, embarrassed, his breathing a soft snuffle, before saying it all at once: “I hope it’s something I deserve, but I would like it if you could unlock my cock cage. Please.”

“You’ve been so good for me. And you deserve everything I say you do. C’mere.” She picks up the tiny key between her breasts.

She turns the key in the lock, opens it, and carefully tugs the cage off. Every movement makes him hunch forward like he’s been punched in the stomach. When at last his member is free, he lets out this gorgeous, agonized whine, body taut and hands curling into fists, like it’s agony to not jerk off as hard as he can.

“What do you want from me, sweetheart?” Maybe it’s mean, but she wants to make him say it.

“I want to come.”

He’s so gorgeous: trembling with need, disheveled and blushing all over, pretty eyes shining like he’s about to cry. She’s never thought of herself as a possessive person, but she wants to be the only woman he thinks about when he’s turned on, the only woman he dreams about. Like if someone asked him what orc pussy feels like, what it felt like for orcs to ride him and laugh at him and grind on his face, he wouldn’t even be able to remember. He wouldn’t know cruelty. He would only know her. She needs to make this so perfect for him. “Show me how you touch your poor pretty cock, and then I’ll get you off.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sparrow runs one finger up his shaft, rubs at the head, strokes the area behind his balls. All with touches that look agonizingly light. All while the way he’s shifting his hips grows steadily more restless and desperate. Finally he grasps his cock and gives one firm stroke, root to tip- then, gasping, wrenches his hand away. It looks like exquisite torture; he’s beautiful, but he’s in agony.

“What are you doing?” she can’t help asking. “Do you need more oil?”

His long eyelashes shadow his cheeks as he glances away. “I’m so used to being edged, to having to edge myself. If I get too close to coming, it’s a ruin as punishment. Even now, I’m scared someone will catch me. Stop me.”

she strokes up and down the tense lines of his back, his corded arms, trying to soothe him. “I won’t. You know that, right?”

He looks away, embarrassed. “But my body doesn’t.”

“Can I trust you to please yourself properly?”

“No, Mistress. I mean, Ciannait.”

“Then come here.”

He ends up sitting in her lap, his back to her front so she can feel him squirm, kiss his neck and pet his tummy. There’s a little bit of softness there; he’s not all skin and bones anymore. She opens the flask of lavender-scented oil and takes time drizzling it over her hands and rubbing them together, then tilting it so one drop at a time lands on the head of his cock, slowly trailing down the soft skin there.

“I’ll be patient for you, I trust you,” he says shakily, ass clenching. Like he wants to beg but he’s too proud. And then “Ciannait.” The way he says her name- oh, that’s begging. That’s glorious. 

So she starts stroking his cock, with a touch steadier and rougher than he dared to use on himself, hands moving upwards one after another.

He keels forward like he’s been punched in the stomach. “I’m going to lose control, I can’t. Ciannait, please, you’re going to make me come-“

She kisses the silk of his hair and the curve of his ear. “Poor gorgeous boy. I bet you’ve spent such a long time just wanting to rub and thrust against something until you come all over it. Just squeezing your hard cock and tugging up and down.”

He whimpers, giving a shaky nod. “The more you talk about it, the more it hurts. But I’m used to getting close and having them stop at the last second, when I can’t hold back anymore. It’s like it itches, like my cock is going to explode… it feels so heavy and prickly…”

“Then I won’t stop.”

‘Ciannait’ dissolves into ‘Ci’ which turns into breathless gasps and whines, but he’s still holding back. He must be in agony, consumed with the desire to stop denying himself- if he actually wanted to restrain his orgasm, how long could he last? What can she do to end his suffering sooner?

His hands are clenched into fists on the blanket. She presses the oil into his grasp. “Fuck yourself on your fingers while I jerk you off, okay? None of those shallow thrusts you must have been torturing yourself with before I came home. Sink your fingers all the way in. No shying away from it. Rub yourself-“ is “prostate” a sexy word? She doesn’t know how to consciously be sexy. She just wants to take care of him. “Rub yourself there for me. Don’t hide from me. Breathe.”

Sparrow writhes against her, fingers sinking into his already well-used hole; when he topples onto the bed, she follows him, so that they’re lying face to face. She goes slower but harder, determined to milk an orgasm out of him. That’s the only way the mushrooms’ side effects will recede. “That’s it. You’ll feel better once you come, I promise.”

He groans, hips trembling, back arching as if he’s right on the verge. Then he pulls away. His cock twitches, stomach muscles tense like he’s trying not to thrust. “I know I’m not weak if I come. I know you won’t laugh at me, or punish me for being too slutty to hold back, or make me bleed... but my body doesn’t understand any of that. I can’t stop holding back. It hurts. Maybe we should stop, I could get a cooling pack, try to take a bath... it’s so hard, fuck.”

She’d like to have mercy on him. But none of that would actually help. He’d just end up more oversensitive and twitchy from the lack of stimulation, the mushroom sending his heavy, swollen junk into desperate overdrive. “You know that won’t help.”

“I just-“

“Close your eyes. I’ll be right back.” She kisses him on the forehead and gets out of bed, then fetches something she bought on her errand. She hadn’t anticipated Sparrow wanting help to deal with the mushroom’s side effects, so she bought some items to make it easy for him as possible. Like a thin, curved glass dildo with an enchantment that gives it a pleasing little buzz. He’s so good for her- moving against the bedding, letting himself have one or two thrusts before pulling his hips away and trembling with the effort of staying still, but keeping his eyes closed and trusting that she’s right there. She coats the toy with oil and prods its blunt tip at his hole. “This is going to help. Open up for me, okay?”

He nods, melting against her, and the toy slides effortlessly in. When she twists the knob at the base, turning on the buzzing, he goes rigid. “Ciannait, please- please, please, please-“ Sparrow covers her body with his own, pressing back against her, seeming desperate for contact. She jerks his cock relentlessly, tight strokes up and down, firmer than she’s seen him dare.

“That’s it. I know you feel the buzzing all through you, pressing right where you need it, I know you want to come so bad. Let me take care for you- let go for me. My beautiful boy.”

Those words, perhaps even more than the constant thrumming against his prostate, seem to push him over the edge. He sags into her arms as jet after jet of cum shoots from his full, swollen balls, long fingers hooked deep inside himself, thrusting again and again into her hands. Groans of agonized pleasure seem to overtake him from deep within. All his pent-up lust finally explodes out, leaving no room for thought or shame. At last he stills, easing the toy out and turning it off, and she can feel his heart pounding- but something else throbs, too.

“You’re still hard...” 

He nods weakly. “It’s the mushrooms.”

No wonder men die of overdoses in captivity.

“Are your hands tired?” So considerate, even as his cock throbs.

“But not the rest of me. And...” Maybe it’s overstepping, but she wants to aid him however she can. “I take a birth control potion every week.”

He groaned, as if his self-control was already fraying again, and his hips began to move once more. “Ciannait, please...”

“It’s okay.”

He presses mindlessly against her, slick cock rutting through her folds, catching on her clit, teasing her with blunt pressure at her entrance before it slips out again. His open-mouthed kisses are clumsy with need, his desire pouring into her; she aches for him, too.

“Here-“ She reaches down and spreads her cunt open, guiding the full length of him in. She can’t resist rubbing her clit; soon the warm expanse of his hand between them covers hers.

The first orgasm seems to have taken some of the edge off. Unlike the frantic, quick thrusts from before, he goes slower, deeper, plunging all the way in and out. Less feral, less desperate, and more relaxed.

“Ciannait,” he breathes, reverent. “You feel so good.”

She wraps all of herself around him. “That’s it- fill me, I’m so wet for you, there-“

With a choked-off whimper he comes again, flooding her with warmth, his rigid cock still stretching her out. Every part of her clutches him tighter, tighter, until the tension inside her shudders apart and she releases too.

“Please- I need to keep going.” A blush covers skin gleaming with sweat, and tears spike his long auburn eyelashes.

“It’s okay.”

The mushrooms’ effects seem to flare up once more as he thrusts into her, fast and desperate, stifling whimpers of oversensitivity. His suffering was beautiful. The way he pounded her G-spot relentlessly? Even more so. “You’re so wet,” he whimpers, eyelashes fluttering. “I can’t stop, I can’t hold back...”

“I know. You’re doing so good.” It feels less like individual orgasms than a constant rain of pleasure, her cunt perfectly and entirely stuffed full, fireworks sparking with every in and out.

“It’s just so much... nngh, I can’t, I can’t.” Whenever she moves atop him, he gasps and clutches at her hips. Still he keeps thrusting into her, gasping for air between sobs, overcome by the release gushing out of him.

She strokes his face, coaxing a loose lock of sweat-soaked hair behind his ear. Though so full with his massive cock that even breathing feels overwhelmingly good, she manages, “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

He lets out a guttural groan and bottoms out inside her cunt, pressing against a perfect spot inside of her. “You feel good. Ciannait, it’s so good.” She kisses him, soothing and petting him all over, and he relaxes in her arms, his cock shooting another load of cum, his moans sounding once more like pleasure instead of pain. Then another jolt of the mushrooms’ effects seem to hit him; he winces, burying his face in her shoulder with a shudder. “I can’t fuck anymore, I can’t stay hard, but it hurts. I feel like my balls are going to explode. Everything’s so sensitive. It’s like it prickles.”

“Okay. Lay back. I’ll fuck you. I’ll take care of you.”

Moving is an effort. Every brush of his swollen balls against his legs or the bedding distracts him, and even soft, his flushed cock leaks constantly. He keeps reaching down to jerk off and then pulling his hand away because it’s too oversensitive and painful, even with their mingled fluids covering his shaft.

“Get on all fours for me?” That might make things easier for them.

“Mhmm…” He manages it, trembling beautifully.

She uses the toy again; instead of just pressing it into his prostate and letting the vibrations do the work, she fucks him with it, guiding it deep and easing it out, dragging it across that sensitive spot inside of him and pressing hard.

“Next time I want you to wear it,” he manages. “Pin me down and fuck me, use my hole… want you to take me, I want to be yours.”

“You are. You’re all mine.”

“Oh, Ci…” Arching his back, he comes again before his arms give out under him and he collapses. He drags himself onto her lap and clings, rubbing his pointed ears against her belly the way a cat might. “I’m sorry I’ve made such a mess.”

She pets his ears. “It’s okay. You did such a good How are you feeling, gorgeous?”

He looks absolutely dazed, like a patient who’s floating on a cloud of painkillers. “Mhmm.”

“You were amazing, you know that? You were so brave for me, absolutely perfect. You got through it- we got through it. Do you need anything?”

He hugs her tightly, smooshing his face against her breasts. “Just you.” It seems like the fever of uncontrollable lust induced by the mushrooms has passed, his cock starting to soften.

What the fuck. He’s so cute. “Of course I’ll stay. You did so good for me, you know that?”

“Mmm,” he mumbles, entirely wrapped around her. He’s like a big warm weighted blanket, radiating contentment and heat. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, birds flutter in the oak trees outside, and the world is a quiet, gentle place.


End file.
